A vain man with a sore throat appears nightly

I have a small ragged sore throat,
like a piece of raw liver tied
to my neck and there are dogs
leaping for it. but there are
no dogs in sydney. perhaps the
birds have eaten them. I am
not happy with the length of my
jeans. what a small thing to have
in your head. but I am a man with
long legs and arms, and I refuse
to scrimp on that last inch. so
I enter a mall across from the
Queen Victoria Building. It's a
gorgeous old British building with
no doors on the openings so the
wind can blow through, a building
that can only be built in a place
like Australia or India. I plead
for help and the clerks tell me
to find G Star. I do. And I find
a store that will sell you jeans
for eight hundred dollars. I try
a pair on and they feel like something
they make you wear in an insane
asylum. something straitjacketish
about the thick denim. But then
I find my jeans. Last year's model,
a bit of flare at the ankle. Cheap.
Well, relatively cheap. They cost
the same amount as what they pay
for me to read. Which seems like
a deal. And so I'm wearing them
now, happy with my covered ankles.